CHAPTER XXIII
Beyond this comforting assurance of my religion, there was but one ideafloating through my confused and fever-consumed brain, and that was alonging vision rather than an idea--a vision of my mother's downy,rose-scented beds; and then, as next best, of the heaps of feathers,covered with gay Indian blankets, which constituted the pride of theKaskaskian homes. Oh, to feel a thick pillow under my head, to stretchmy aching limbs on the yielding feathers! It was the one thing in life Iwanted. I longed for rest as a tired infant longs for his mother's softbreast, and tender arms. The hope of it alone gave me courage to drag myweighted feet over the last two miles of our way.
It was a little strange that the realization of the bliss of repose wasmy first conscious thought after an illness of many days, so that Icould never realize that more than a night had intervened between thelonging and the realization, the agony and the relief. My firstconscious moment lasted just long enough for me to appreciate thecomfort of my couch; almost immediately I sank again into sleep orunconsciousness. The next time I came to myself I was not only wideawake, but alert and curious as I opened my eyes to note mysurroundings. They were rough limed walls with a low sloping ceiling;bright-hued Indian rugs were upon the floor, and half-burned logs onheavy dog-irons, with sputtering candle ends, burning upon a roundstand, in the farthest corner. In the shadow of the corner sat a figure,its head against the wall. Some one had been good enough to sit up allthe night with me, and now that day was breaking, his eyes could be keptopen no longer, and he had fallen into a doze. I would be very quiet andnot wake him.
Presently the figure stirred, rose and came to the bedside. I recognizedClark, even in the dimness of the gray dawn.
"You have been watching me, my Colonel?" I questioned, trying to smile,and to put out the hand that was too feeble to answer to my will. Clarkcame closer, saw my purpose, gave my hand a warm pressure, and lifted mea little higher on my pillows.
"Have I been very ill?" I asked.
"You have been near enough the happy hunting ground to know the way, mylad. But, thank God, you are better, and will live long enough, I trust,to forget the route before you take another journey in that direction."
"Where are we?"
"In Kaskaskia, in one of the loft rooms of the Commandant's house."
"Is Ellen below?"
"Yes, and asleep, I hope; she and Angelique tend you by day, Legere,Givens and I by night; but you must not talk yet a while; that's Dr.Lafonte's orders. Drink this and go to sleep."
I obeyed like a child, settling myself deeper in the feathers, with asigh of content.
Upon my third awaking, I recognized Ellen's voice, and felt her softhand upon my brow.
"Ellen!" I whispered, and opened my eyes to look at the face bendingabove mine with the rapture a saint might feel upon seeing some beatificvision, long prayed for.
"Do not talk, Cousin Donald," she said, beaming a smile of cheerfulaffection upon me; "Dr. Lafonte says you must be very quiet for a fewdays more."
I managed, despite my weakness, to get hold of her hand, and clung to itfeebly. "I will be perfectly quiet," I answered in tones so weak that Iwondered if it could be really I who was speaking, "if you will sitbeside me and hold my hand."
She smiled, flushed a little, and as she held a glass of cordial to mylips said coaxingly, "If you'll drink this and go to sleep, I will."Then she sat down beside me, and held my nerveless fingers in her warm,soft clasp, till I was dreaming an odd jumble of pleasant visionsthrough all of which flitted Ellen's face and form.
This sort of half dream life went on I know not how long. I onlyremember an incident here and there--floating faces, cups held to mylips, and then the pleasant drifting off into long periods of dreamlessrest. At last I was strong enough to sit part of each day in ahigh-backed chair, and after that I saw little of Ellen. She came twiceeach day for a brief visit, but Angelique brought my broth and wine,helped me from bed to chair, smoothed my pillows, and sometimes sang meto sleep with wild, sweet Acadian ballads. Clark came in and out withcheery presence, and encouraging words--but now that summer had comeagain he had more affairs to administer, and so less time to give me.Givens would linger, though, when he came on his daily visit, to tell methe gossip of the village, of which the half wild, half drowsy lifesuited him well. Legere and others visited me almost daily, and mymonotonous life was not a lonely one, though forced inaction grew moreand more irksome as my strength returned.
"Clark," I said to him one day, "I can't stand this suspense any longer.I want to know all, even if it be the worst. Since I am better, Ellencomes in only when others are here, and makes prompt excuses to getaway. Her kindness is barely cousinly. And you too seem to avoid beingleft alone with me. Have you spoken to Ellen?"
"Yes, I have spoken--though to do so, comported not fairly with ourcompact. But my feelings overmastered me. I have avoided telling youtill you should be stronger."
"I am strong enough now," I answered, though I trembled from head tofoot; "tell me all--and quickly."
"It was one evening when we thought you dying. I followed her from theroom, and was moved to tell her your last words to me--when you left herto my care, and bade me give her perfect freedom in the disposition ofher life, but left us your blessing could she love me enough to link herfate with mine. She wept afresh at the recital of your words; and thenwith friendly candor there was no mistaking, thanked me for my love, andaccepted my offer of protection, even while she told me that whether youlived or died there was no hope for me. Her quiet decision awed me, andforced back all the protestations I had formulated against her vow ofnunnery. She declared it was no rash or hasty one, made to be repentedof, but that she held it to be more sacred and binding than any otherclaim upon her heart and life, and that she waited only for yourrestoration to health to go, under Father Gibault's escort, and yours,if you would, to the convent at Quebec."
"Comrade," I said, putting out my shaking hand to clasp his, "that isnot the news I expected--but it is much more distressing to me."
"Perhaps I am wrong to tell you, and am but making the harder for youthe final disappointment," continued Clark after a silence of somemoments, during which he seemed to be thinking deeply, "but I am notconvinced that Ellen looks forward to the life of a nun. I believe sheonce made a foolish vow and thinks it sacrilege to break it. And if Ican read a woman's heart through her face, McElroy, Ellen O'Neil feelsfor you a tenderness that is neither usual nor natural for a woman tofeel towards one she regards only as a distant kinsman. I believe sheloves you--yet I cannot honestly say I think you will win her. Her willis strong, and her religion has so far been the dominant principle ofher life. One side of her nature is fitted to the martyr's role, theother side is strongly human--throbs with the full current of youth,loves daring and doing, experiencing and enjoying, even as you and I.Which part of her complex nature will triumph I cannot foresee. This Ican say honestly, comrade," and Clark laid a hand upon my knee, and histruth-speaking eyes looked straight into mine, "even with my owngrievous disappointment fresh upon me, I would see Ellen the happy andjoy-giving wife of my true-hearted friend with delight, compared to thefeeling with which I shall see her the self-immolated 'bride of thechurch'--which is, in my opinion, but another name for victim tosuperstition and priestly tyranny. The fates grant that you may win her,McElroy."
An hour I sat in deep thought--then I made my vow. If in Ellen's heartthere dwelt but the weakest germ of love for me, it should grow on untilit uprooted all other influences. I bade the whole Roman Churchdefiance. A girl's superstition to come between Ellen and her life'sfulfillment? between me and lifelong happiness? I swore it should notbe! She should love me more and more till love mastered her, chokingsuperstition and conquering her will. Once convinced, she would see itall as I did, and be glad all her life that I had saved her from a fatalmistake. I girded myself afresh for the conflict, as it were, each hourof the days that followed, and planned my campaign against a maiden'sheart as carefully as a general pla
ns an advance into the enemy'scountry. My first move must be to keep her from reaching a finaldecision as long as possible; my second to take her, upon some pretext,back to the valley with me.
Meanwhile I hastened my recovery by every means possible, watchingimpatiently the summer moving on to autumn. From my window I could seethe slow, gliding river, glancing in the sun's rays, and the stagnant,spreading bayous, gay with spotted lilies, and fringed with swayinggrasses, while birds, as gayly colored as the blossoms, rode blithelyupon the springy reeds. The meadows were green with waving corn, oryellow with the ripened grass, and the rich odor of the wild grapes cameupon the breeze with other and more elusive fragrances. But glidingriver, reed-fringed bayou, and luxuriant meadow, were not half so fairto my real vision as the dear valley to my imaginary one. I longed tosee the undulating blue ranges, and the varied landscape, with thecomfortable farmhouses dotted over it. I was eager to be off for home,to hear the late news from the war, and to bear Ellen away from Romishinfluences.
At last spirit could wait the body's leisure no longer, and though stillweak and emaciated, I made a firm resolve to start for home within aweek or two. Then I sent Angelique with a message to Ellen, demanding aprivate interview.
"Your message is earnest, almost peremptory, Cousin Donald," said Ellen,coming in with a playful smile on her lips; "am I to have anotherscolding, and for what? My conscience acquits me this time; I havestopped coquetting with the officers, or walking alone without thevillage; therefore I know not what wrong I have done to deserve akinsman's reprimand."
"'Tis not to scold, but to entreat that I have sent for you, Ellen," Ireplied. "Will you sit down here before me, and give me your seriousattention for a brief while?" Perhaps it was the tone of my voice, or itmay have been that my face betrayed me, for Ellen flushed and droppedher lids an instant over her eyes, as she took the chair I hadindicated, yet saying with an air of banter:
"My 'serious attention,' Cousin Donald? You plead for it as if 'twere arare favor, and one most difficult to obtain;--am I so seldom serious?"
"Two weeks from to-day, Ellen, I start back to Virginia," ignoring herplayful manner; "my duty calls me thither; but I cannot leave you herein Kaskaskia without lawful guardian or protector. You have long known,Ellen, that I love you with my whole being, that the dearest and mostsacred wish of my heart is to make you my wife. Will you marry me,Ellen, and go back to Virginia to a home of your own, with theprotection and constant devotion of one whose whole life shall bededicated to your happiness?"
The flush on Ellen's cheeks leaped upward to her brow in a flame ofcrimson; her eyes grew darker; and upon her face came a look of mingledsorrow, yearning and resolve.
"Oh, my cousin, have I not said it often enough," with thesob-suggesting catch, vibrating like harp tones through her words--"thatnever can I be wife to any man? Do even you believe that all this time Ihave been jesting on a subject so sacred--that I have but used pretenseof holy calling as a coquettish wile to lure men on? Yet how can I findfault with you for having thought so, since my life has so belied mywords? I have been naught but a frivolous coquette these months past--asif I would get all of worldly triumph, and food for vanity possible outof my life, during the respite which circumstances have afforded me fromthe fulfillment of my vow. Mine has been lip service, only, not yet haveI known true heart consecration. But I will know it, Donald, willpossess the true nun's heart, if all of self must be immolated by hourlychastisement and self-denial to achieve it. I have solemnly pledged mylife to prayer, and penance, and holy service. Will not you, CousinDonald, my only friend and protector, my one source of human strength,help me to keep my vow to God?" and she clasped her hands in passionateentreaty, and lifted moist eyes and trembling lips to my serious gaze.
"Dear Ellen!" and I spoke with a new emotion of respect for the depth ofher feeling, "I want more than aught else to help you, but I do notfully understand, nor see the reason for your being so determined, andfeeling so strongly--will you not tell me all, so that I can betterunderstand you? When was this vow you speak of made?"
"That bitter night I was lost upon the mountain, when, numb with cold,and shaken with terror of the wolves pursuing us, I fell from therearing horse, frightened too by the wild beasts, and lay there in agonyof fear and pain, through long hours, listening to the wolves, as theychased the poor horse, and each moment expecting to feel their fangs inmy flesh. I prayed as never I had prayed before, to the Holy Virgin andher sacred Son, promising to consecrate all the rest of my life toprayer and humble service, in some rigorous convent, if they would sendme deliverance from a violent death. Even as I prayed I fell into sleep,or unconsciousness, and awoke in Father Givens' house. He nursed me backto health, and I had it in my mind to induce him to take me to Baltimoreto the Convent of the Sacred Heart, had you not come by with the messagefrom Mr. Jefferson. I saw the scout's desire was to go with you, and Iwould not stand between him and his wish. Already he had done too muchfor a willful girl who had no claim upon his charities, save the claimof common humanity. I gave all my energies to persuading him that a lifeof adventure appealed to me even more strongly than the life of aconvent retreat, and so fed his inclination to join in the adventurethat he could not resist it. At last he consented to purchase for me thecoveted disguise as his foster son, and when once he had seen me wearit, and watched my rifle practice, he grew interested in my plans, andmade no further difficulty.
"For the first weeks I was buoyed by the spirit of excitement, andenjoyed the free, outdoor life I had been accustomed to as a child. Notuntil you and Thomas joined us did I realize the boldness of my deed. Idreaded to have you find me out, yet I could not bear to be left behindin Kentucky. What the result might be haunted my thoughts and my dreams.Again I added daily vows to daily prayers. Were I safely delivered oncemore, delivered from the coil of questionable circumstances with which Ihad rashly surrounded myself, I would without delay, find my way to somepeaceful convent and atone for all my willful past by years of devoutconsecration. You know how wonderfully I was delivered--was spared evenblame or question; how fortunately I have since been placed.
"Were not all my prayers heard and answered? Dare I then break myvows--lie to the holy Virgin and her sacred Son? Accept divinedeliverance, and repay with broken promises, violated oaths? Could youlove and trust a wife who would come to you with a sacrilege upon herconscience?"
"My dear one!" answering her solemnly, as she had spoken, and taking thefluttering fingers firmly in my own to still them; "I will not ask youto violate a vow you regard so sacredly. I will live all my life with anunsatisfied longing, an aching, hungry heart, rather than to say oneword to urge you against your conscience. But I think you reason andfeel morbidly. Is there no other life of consecration to God's servicefor a woman than that to be found behind convent walls? Think you thelife of wife and mother less holy, less self-sacrificing, of less savoryincense to God than that of a nun?
"What service can a nun render to God that a consecrated wife and mothermay not offer Him? Prayer? Does not the wife pray with added fervor--forherself, that she may live a worthy exemplar to those she loves--forthem, with more earnest zeal because love prompts each petition--and forall the world more fervently because those she lives for are a part ofit. Deeds of unselfish charity? Are they less in God's sight, believeyou, than the daily immolation of her own wishes which each true wifepractices upon the altar of domestic duty. And what need we most in thisnew world? Is it not consecrated men and women to spend all the powersof their being for peace, purity and enlightenment? We hope to found inthis virgin land a wondrous republic where freedom of conscience andequal opportunities will be offered to the downtrodden of all nations.But we may not hope to perpetuate such republic, unless there be noblewomen--women of the unusual intelligence and gifts with which God hashonored you--to strive with us toward that ideal."
"There is truth in most you say, Donald," a glow answering mine on herface, her hands still and warm now in mine; "you move me always by yourca
lm reasoning. Yet I am bound by my vow. Did I let my selfishinclinations plead, I might easily persuade myself that your logic is astrue for me as it would be for another, not so solemnly pledged as I am.But the very leaning of desire warns me to guard my sacred promises themore sturdily against temptation." In her earnestness she did notrealize the half confession she had made, but my heart leaped within me,and a quiver of joy thrilled to my finger tips.
"Tell me, Ellen," and I held her hands in a tighter clasp, and claimedthe full gaze of her eyes, "had you never made this vow, could youconsent to be my wife--would there have been hope of happiness for me?"
"Oh, Donald!" a cry of entreaty, following the blush that swam upward tothe roots of her hair, "it is not fair to ask me--you have promised tohelp me--you should not make my duty so hard--so very hard for me."
I kissed the hands now cold and trembling again, not with passion, butwith reverence on my lips, and laid them gently on her knee; then said,with a mighty effort at self-control--for I would have given the worldto take her in my arms, and dared hope she would find it hard to resistme:
"Forgive me, Ellen; I will ask you nothing; you shall follow your dutyas you see it. If you feel your promise binds you to the utmostself-sacrifice, I shall use no power your confidence has given me topersuade you from your duty. But why should you remain in thiswilderness unprotected--for I must needs follow my soldier's duty backto Virginia--waiting the uncertain chance of safe convoy to Quebec, whenyou could go under my escort to the valley, stay there with your lawfulprotectors till the war is over, and then be escorted by them, with dueconsent and proper honor to your chosen retreat in Baltimore? There youwill not only have wider sphere of usefulness among people of your ownrace and language, but you will be near your parents' graves and inreach of your relatives, should they need you, or you them. There Imight even visit you sometimes--it would be a consolation and a joy hadI only the happiness to hold your hand an instant, and to catch the olddear smile through the grating of convent bars.
"Moreover, Ellen, though I say this not in harshness, you would feel, Ithink, surer of God's blessing on your sacrifice if you were to enteryour holy life at peace with all men--without bitterness in your hearttoward the unfaithful guardians to whom your parents left you."
"That thought has troubled me," said Ellen, tears springing to her eyes,and making a soft film over their velvet blueness; "it does not seemmeet for me to take the sacred veil with a spirit unforgiving andunforgiven. I would welcome the opportunity to beg Uncle Thomas'forgiveness, and to apologize to Aunt Martha for my willfulness. I hadno wish, believe me, Donald, to cause them suffering. I thought torelieve Uncle Thomas of an obstacle to his domestic happiness, and AuntMartha of a source of much annoyance. Remorse has pursued me since Iknew of Thomas' following me, that he was willing to desert his parentsand his religion for me. I made what reparation I could by sending himback to them, and his nature is not one to grieve long. If you, CousinDonald, would but carry to them my repentance, and obtain theirforgiveness, and their consent to my taking the veil, I might be able todo sufficient penance for my other sins."
"The truest reparation you can make them, Ellen, the one they would mostvalue, and which will alone relieve them from the reproach of theirconsciences, and the odium of their neighbors, will be to go back withme, live in peace and amity with them for a time, and go from them inkindness to your convent seclusion."
"It is indeed a cup of humbling you would hold to my lips," said Ellen,paling suddenly--"yet doubtless I need to drink of that very cup. Pride,I think, is my besetting sin."
"Pride and love of your own will, Ellen,--unseemly faults for a fair andgentle woman--yet offset by rare virtues."
"Do not flatter me, Donald; let me face the truth; in showing me my realself, you are my truest friend. Pride and self-will! when I shouldpossess 'a meek and quiet spirit,' and 'an humble and a contrite heart'before I shall be ready for my holy calling."
"May it not be, Ellen, that you are mistaking your determination tofulfill a rash vow, made under exciting circumstances, for a true callfounded on real consecration of heart and spirit? Talk with FatherGibault; he is a holy man, yet a just and reasonable one; tell him all,and ask him to help you to determine your path of duty. Then come andtell me your decision--and with God's help, dear one, I will add toyours all my strength and courage, to enable you to follow where yourconscience leads you. But oh, Ellen, will you not tell me once, justonce, that you do love me, and would give yourself to me if you werefree?"
"Donald! Donald! you must not disturb my soul by such entreaties!" shecried in pleading tones. "Do you not see that if once it were said, itcould never again be unsaid?" and she left me hastily, her head droopinglike a flower upon its stalk.
Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman Page 23